


The First Herald-Maza

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Crossover, Flirting, Gen, International Relations, Languages and Linguistics, Loneliness, Magic, Politics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanyel and Yfandes survived the end of <i>Magic’s Price</i>. The Heraldic Circle has sent them abroad to promote exchanges of magical information between Valdemar and other countries. One of those countries is the Ethuveraz. </p><p>This story takes place about ten years after <i>Magic’s Price</i> ends and about three years after <i>The Goblin Emperor</i> ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Herald-Maza

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [shadow_lover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover) for beta’ing this fic! :)

“To whom are we giving the first audience this afternoon, Csevet?” Maia asked as he folded the morning’s final piece of correspondence.

“To a …” Csevet’s brows drew together. “To an individual who hails from a far-off land, Serenity.”

“‘Individual’?” Maia echoed, the odd word bringing his wits into focus. In Csevet’s three years as his secretary, Maia didn't think he'd ever heard him describe a petitioner thus. He would say “elf” or “goblin,” “man” or “woman,” “lord” or “lady” or “clocksmith” or “soldier.” Never “individual.”

“We shall describe the petitioner to you, Serenity. For a man of his years, which we would number roughly fifty, he seems in robust good health. Quick witted, too, with a reasonable grasp of our tongue, though his understanding of proper address in formal situations is, well, imperfect. He has the coloring of an elf; his eyes are similar to yours and to those of your father, the Emperor Varenechibel of revered memory. For the most part, he is quite well-favored. However,” and Csevet frowned with concern, “we are not sure he _is_ an elf. If he is, then he has a most unfortunate deformity.”

“What sort of deformity?” Maia asked warily.

“His ears, Serenity. They are ... small and oddly shaped. Rounded, after a fashion, with unpleasingly irregular interiors. That said, his hearing seems not to have suffered for it.” Csevet paused again, looking even more pained.

“Go on,” Maia prompted.

“Serenity, if we understood the nature of his petition correctly, he is something akin to a maza. A very, very gifted maza, seeking an exchange of relevant knowledge with his counterparts in foreign lands.”

It was Maia’s turn to frown. “We do not understand your seeming discomfort with this, Csevet. This is not necessarily a bad idea.”

“It is not his apparent motives that give us pause, Serenity, but the fact that, as is the custom for the most powerful mazei in his homeland, he dresses all in white.”

Maia sighed. Personally he did not care if the man wore white to court. Personally he did not care if the man wore a white wedding gown and a tiara to court. Very likely Csethiro would not care, either — on the contrary, she’d be amused. However, the two of them, plus Cala, would be the only ones in the entire Untheileian who did not care.

“In addition …” Csevet paused again, then said delicately, “it seems as though the height of the fashion he wears was at least a few centuries past.”

“We suppose he might not appreciate the offer of a blue robe that has seen better days,” Cala said from the rear wall of the Tortoise Room.

“We supposed the same,” Csevet said. “Therefore we have asked the Master of Wardrobe to attire him in a way that will offend neither our court’s sensibilities nor his sense of dignity. We thought, regardless, that you should be aware of that particular custom in his country.”

“Excellent thinking, Csevet, to call on Dachensol Atterezh’s expertise,” Maia said.

Csevet’s ears twitched, jangling his silver earrings, and his cheeks pinkened. “Thank you, Serenity.”

“We believe the only questions we have left are those of the man’s name and title, then,” Maia said.

Csevet frowned once more. “Serenity, we must profess, the naming conventions of this man’s country are unclear to us. He told us he is ‘of Valdemar,’ but he looked bewildered when we inquired about House Valdemada. It turned out that ‘Valdemar’ is his homeland’s name. His given name is Vanyel — a very odd form for a given name, we must say. There is no House Vanyada, either, and he is no duke or marquess or the like. His family name is Ashkevron, which ... well, Serenity, we were at a loss entirely as to what knowledge of kinship or title might be drawn from that name.”

“It is a most barbaric name,” Lieutenant Beshelar muttered from his position opposite Cala at the back of the room.

Ignoring the nohecharis, Maia took a moment to ponder all that Csevet had just told him. Finally he suggested, “Perhaps the Marquess Lanthevel should be consulted. If he is unfamiliar with these naming conventions, perhaps this ... did you say ‘Vanya’?”

“Vanyel, Serenity,” Csevet corrected mildly.

“—this Vanyel could meet with him, as well as with the mazei. If, indeed, we — and the Adremaza — judge that this exchange would benefit the Ethuveraz as well.”

*

At a small table in the large, busy antechamber of the great hall known as the Untheileian, Vanyel reviewed his notes a final time, took a deep draught of water from the goblet before him, and sighed heavily. A servant appeared out of nowhere with a pitcher; Van shook his head slightly, and she nodded and turned away.

The gods, he would readily admit, had been better to him than he deserved. Not only had they granted him victory over Leareth, but they’d let him — and Yfandes — survive. But when the gods give with one hand, they take away with the other. Which was why, not long after that battle, Vanyel had been asked by the Heraldic Circle to travel to far-flung kingdoms, that he might bring back to Valdemar the knowledge of their mages or whatever they had instead of mages. In turn, he was authorized to share with them the secrets of Valdemaran magic, provided they were neither too sacred nor too sensitive to be shared.

After so much war and strife, so many years of loneliness and self-doubt, with his niblings growing up and his parents grown old, the last thing Van had wanted was to spend most of the years remaining to him abroad. But this, too, was service to Valdemar: being an Arrow of the Queen, one regularly shot far abroad. Ah, well… he was as hale as any man half his age, and he could protect himself better than most travelers. Gating, though it left him drained for a good two days afterward, saved him many an overly long or hazardous journey. And on his returns to Valdemar he always had a sackful of trinkets to delight his mother, her ladies, and the many children of Forst Reach.

Still he wished, not for the first time, that Stefen could have accompanied him to transform his sojourns with music and passion.

 _:Well you know, dearheart, that Valdemar cannot spare the both of you,:_ came the teasing yet comforting Mindspeech.

 _:Yes, ‘Fandes, I do know that well,:_ Vanyel Mindsent back to his Companion. _:And he would have little time for me in any case, with his load of Bardic, Healing, and teaching duties.:_

_:Not to mention the job of convincing everyone that regular Heralds can protect them as well as you can.:_

_:Indeed,:_ Vanyel Mindsighed. _:But perhaps it’s a boon he’s not with me this spring. For all their airships and their pneumatic tubes and their grand new steam-powered bridge, have you and I ever encountered such a damned backward lot? They make the late and unlamented Father Leren look positively accepting of shaych. Those two poor lads in the tavern last night, mocked by that table full of drunkards. I wish I could have sat with them and bought them wine without making matters worse for them… or drawing attention to myself.:_

 _:Not to mention how the Ethuverazeise treat their noblewomen,:_ Yfandes added, her Mindspeech sharp with disgust. _:Jisa would fair spit nails at it.:_

Van’s heart ached at the thought of his blood-daughter the Queen; he missed her as much as he missed no one else, save Stefen. _:Supposedly the Emperor and Empress are trying to change all that. And encountering resistance from those who don’t much like having a … a “goblin” on the throne. I confess, ‘Fandes, I have a hard time thinking of actual people in terms from a book of fairy tales.:_

_:Even though their ears are bigger than mine?:_

Vanyel suppressed an audible laugh but Sent her his amusement. _:Yes, and even though the hair on the “elves” looks like they’ve spent their whole lives tapped into ley-lines. I must say, though, I’ve heard good things about this Edrehasivar from the ones who don’t make Forst Reach seem a bastion of forward thinking. They call him a considerate and compassionate man, intelligent if not terribly learnèd, and interested in alliances. Certainly he knows enough to surround himself with excellent servants, if that secretary of his is any indication… K’Something or other, his name was. Very helpful, quite bright—:_

_:Quite pretty, too. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice, for I won’t believe you.:_

_:Yes, yes, my dear, quite pretty, too,:_ Van conceded. _:And I didn’t sense_ too _much horror from him at my ears.:_

 _:Have you been practicing your pronouns for the Emperor, darling?_ We _should be terribly disappointed if you haven’t.:_

This time Van stifled a groan of frustration. _:Why in the name of the Havens would anyone need a formal mode of address in the_ first _person? And,_ of course, _every_ other _part of speech in their damned tongue is inflected nigh unto death. A hidebound language for a hidebound people. I suppose I should be glad my ears mark me a patent barbarian, rather than a native who might actually intend offense with the wrong case or mood or mirativity.:_

Actually, though he sheltered the thought from Yfandes, at this point he would rather have come to fisticuffs with an outraged elf than endure one more horrified, surreptitious stare at the sides of his head, or Othersense the revulsion around him. Initially he’d tried to allay it with projective Empathy, but doing so became so draining in such short order that he gave it up to let most elves think of him as they would.

He had, he realized, grown far too accustomed to drawing amorous eyes — at least, the eyes of those didn’t know and fear him for his powers, or despise him for being shay’a’chern. And grown far too vain for a man of his years. The disgust of this strange and overly mannered people, whose own ears were like those of donkeys, shouldn’t be catapulting him back to the lonely and fearful days of his adolescence.

And, yet, it was.

_:“Mirativity”…?:_

_:I…_ we _will explain that complex concept later, darling. I’m glad I’ve already half a dozen other tongues; otherwise I couldn’t imagine trying to acquire this one in my dotage.:_

_:Your dotage,:_ Yfandes Mindsnorted. _:If your linguistic skills do not impress them, then your stunning beauty will, showcased as it is in your brand-new clothes.:_

True enough, if they could overlook his ears. Vanyel wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about his new and, to him, rather otherworldly attire — well-starched linen shirt, waistcoat, tight-fitting trousers, and over it all a long surcoat of many buttons, plus boots in the most supple leather imaginable and with heels and soles that clicked decisively on tile and parquetry. He didn’t much like that only the shirt was white, the rest grey or black. Nor was he used to the feel of his hair done up in elaborate braids and secured with silver chains and a little pair of pearl hairsticks. He had to admit, however, that since he had been newly kitted out, the habitués of the Untheileneise Court had begun to assess him with less scorn and more interest.

“Dach’osmer Ash… Ash-kev-ron,” said a high voice at his elbow now, sounding out the syllables with awkward deliberation. He looked up from his notes to see a boy of about eleven in a page’s uniform, looking quite ill at ease. Van projected a slender tendril of Empathy into the boy’s mind, and the round young face relaxed a little.

“Is it my… er, our turn?” Vanyel asked politely.

The page nodded. “We shall announce you, Dach’osmer Ash-kev-ron; please follow us.”

Van stood and secreted his notes in the pocket of his coat. Initially he followed the page only so far as the elaborately wrought double doors, which were open just a few inches. Visible through the gap was the impassive face of a man in a tabard who wore his hair in a topknot. He gave the page a curt nod, then stepped back. Two seconds later, both doors swung wide open.

“To his Imperial Serenity, Edrehasivar the Seventh,” the boy declaimed in a clear, high voice that echoed through the massive space before them, “we announce Dach’osmer Vanyel Ash-kev-ron, Herald-Mage of Valdemar.”

Stretching before Van was a broad and seemingly endless central aisle. His boots echoed against the floor as he strode down it, ringing up into the high vaulted ceilings of the Untheileian. Row upon row of heads, each with long hair piled atop it and secured with those little sticks, swung about to regard him as he passed. Murmurs filled the air alongside the assorted expensive perfumes the courtiers wore. As palpable as both to him was his Sense of their wary titillation at this finely dressed foreigner, one with — to them — misshapen ears, who had obtained an audience with their ruler.

Of a certainty, this great hall had been architected to humble petitioners to the Emperor, and to strike fear into criminals or war captives marched before him. It didn’t humble Vanyel, who had been in many such great halls. Seldom, if ever, these days did he think much on the horrors that had taken place within a far smaller, far cruder hall — the horrors he had suffered, or the horrors he had wreaked. But, on occasion, to have the thought _I could set all of you on fire without moving so much as a finger_ at the back of his mind was of great comfort. This was one such occasion.

At the very end of the aisle was a tall dais, which bore an even taller throne. Van’s lips curved faintly as he neared the dais; if the courtiers took note of that, he didn’t see, for he wasn’t looking at them at all.

Save for the splashes of color that were its tall stained-glass windows, the Untheileian was a coldly white space from floor to ceilings. Its throne was made of ivory, and the garments of the man seated on it were all of the purest white. Hearty flames danced in the bowls of the great torchières that flanked the dais, but they brought barely any warmth to all that pallor.

Against it, the rain-washed slate of the Emperor’s skin stood out all the more. So did the inky black of his thick, curly hair, which was caught up in an elaborate jeweled net and secured with the ubiquitous sticks. But, coming closer, Vanyel could see his elven as well as his goblin heritage: he was fine of feature, and his wide, deep-set eyes were a dove-grey that made Van’s silver ones seem dark by comparison. Drawing up at the foot of the dais, Van noted the thickness of Edrehasivar’s eyelashes, on a par with that of his hair.

The lifebond between two souls made infidelity corporeally impossible; were one to even attempt to be untrue to the other, prowess and pleasure would desert him or her immediately, making fulfillment impossible. However, the bond did not stifle lust, and certainly it did not interfere with mere appreciation of another’s beauty. And this Emperor was very beautiful indeed, Van thought, the strange ears notwithstanding. Though his attendants had dressed and coiffed him richly as befitting his station, his face and posture spoke to his not being entirely aware of his own beauty, which served only to enhance it.

Staring at him, however, was not going to bring Vanyel any closer to his goal. As he’d been instructed in the antechamber, he dropped smoothly to his knees, then prostrated himself before the dais.

“Please rise,” came the voice from the throne. It was young, a tad high, and quietly composed, yet to Van’s heightened Senses it absolutely smoldered with curiosity.

Vanyel stood and lowered his eyes, regarding Edrehasivar through his lashes deferentially. The Gift of Empathy left him better attuned to the moods of others than most, and for this moment that would have to do. Sending out even the most careful, most tentative of Thought-sense probes would be unwise in the extreme. The magics of kingdoms varied widely, but in all of them, powerful men and women without magics of their own retained mages to protect them. That protection extended to their thoughts, especially in the presence of other magic-workers whose intentions they had no cause to trust.

Edrehasivar’s mage — his _maza,_ that was the local word — was present, in fact. He did not quite lean against the wall at the rear of the dais, but neither did he stand perfectly upright, as would be expected of an imperial guard. Behind his thick spectacles, his eyes seemed benevolent and untroubled. Across his chest he wore a baldric emblazoned with the imperial crest, as did the muscular and much shorter man who stood several feet away from him. That would be the second imperial guard, Van thought, a soldier by training. But while the soldier was neatly turned out from his austere topknot to his well-shined boots, under the maza’s baldric was an incongruously ratty blue robe.

Word had had it that this maza was both thoroughly unprepossessing and, for his position, insufficiently reverent. _Correct on both counts,_ Van thought as he assessed the tight pale-violet shields the young man had set about himself and the Emperor. The energies in the great hall passed through most of its occupants like light through a window, sometimes eddying and sparking around them. The shields rebuffed most of these forces, admitting only a very few in smooth, tightly controlled lines. 

Another bit of intelligence Van had obtained was that, three years before, this maza had instantly killed a nobleman who was leaping at the Emperor with a dagger. It was, Van thought, entirely credible. Dealing such death was leaps and bounds above even the most impressive shieldwork — and this youngling’s shieldwork _was_ impressive — but kings and emperors weren’t guarded by workers of low magic.

“What brings you before us, Dach’osmer Ashkevron?” Edrehasivar inquired, pronouncing Vanyel’s family name more smoothly than Van had heard it spoken since he’d arrived in the Ethuveraz.

Taking a deep breath and willing himself not to slip on one of these people’s wretchedly complex pronouns, Vanyel said, “We are greatly honored by your granting of our petition, Your Serenity. We are from a land called Valdemar that is very far away, in a part of the world known as Velgarth. So far away that this part of the world is unknown to most of its inhabitants, as we are sure that Velgarth is unknown to most of the Ethuveraz and its immediate neighbors.”

Van had learned of the Ethuveraz on another voyage several years before, thanks to a serendipitous encounter with _A Handbook for Travelers in the Elflands_ in a secondhand bookshop. His subsequent journeys and conversations with other travelers had afforded him more knowledge of the country, as had later acquisitions of more books and maps. He thanked the Havens that the former had included a grammatical primer and a dictionary.

“We are what is known in our homeland as a ‘Herald-Mage,’” he continued now. “The term ‘Mage’ corresponds, more or less, with your term ‘maza.’ Heralds are—” Companions were a subject best not immediately discussed with strangers to Valdemar, Vanyel had learned. “—akin to Mages but have additional Gifts. Because of our multitude of powers as a Herald-Mage, we have long been in service to our Queen and country as protector, advisor, instructor, and, now, ambassador.

“What we seek, Serenity, is an exchange of knowledge with your… mazar.” A faint titter of laughter rose and fell almost immediately. _Tits of the Lady Bright._ Van wondered which word he’d mangled.

Despite his focus on Edrehasivar and on his own speech, Van had picked up both movement and energy directly behind himself. He was not greatly surprised when he heard an older man’s voice say, “With all due respect, Dach’osmer Ashkevron, we—” and here the plural was used “—have no means of validating that you are who you claim to be.”

Vanyel turned to behold cold blue eyes in a well-lined face. The man wore the same blue robe as the maza on the dais, though his was in better repair. “Serenity,” he addressed the Emperor, dropping to his knees for a quick obeisance. Then he rose again, surprisingly lithe for his years, and resumed his address of Vanyel. “We are Sehalis Athmaza, Adremaza of the Athmaz’are. That is to say, we are the master of all mazei in the Ethuveraz.”

Vanyel bowed to him deeply. This man was probably at the same level of powers both magical and political as Van’s late aunt, though undoubtedly he was far more impressed by formal protocol than Savil had been. “We are honored, Dach’osmer Athmaza.”

A few more snickers ran through the crowd. As Vanyel cursed again in his mind, Sehalis Athmaza turned his head to face the courtiers, his great ears flattening against his skull. Though Vanyel could not see his expression just then, he could Feel the scorn emanate off the man like smoke off a greenwood fire, and he could see with his own two eyes the nervous looks on many faces.

The old maza turned around again to Vanyel and said, face and voice both mild now, “All mazei adopt the surname ‘Athmaza’ upon entering the Athmaz’are. Your address of us, Dach’osmer Ashkevron, is perfectly courteous but overly flattering; you may simply call us ‘Adremaza.’”

“We thank you with genuine gratitude for your corrections to our Ethuverazeise, Adremaza,” Vanyel said, bowing again. “Now, in answer to your question…”

Rather than complete the sentence, he turned to face the torchière that stood to the right of the throne. The flames that roared atop it went out in a wink. As the courtiers gasped, and the young maza on the dais raised his head sharply, Van focused on the other torchière and doused its fire immediately. Gasps turned to murmurs of appreciation. He waited a few seconds, then rekindled the flames atop each pillar, one and then the other. There were more gasps, as well as exclamations of delight. Someone started to clap, and for a good five seconds afterward palms politely beat against palms throughout the Untheileian.

Between and below the flames of the torchières, the pale eyes of the Emperor glinted with interest, and his ears stood erect — elven ears could apparently be useful in gauging the emotions of their owners. Vanyel Sensed that this youngling was no fool; he must have asked the Adremaza to put the strange petitioner to the test, perhaps at the suggestion of his personal maza. Nor, Van assumed, would he promise anything that might harm the interests of his empire or his people. But he was no less captivated by the art of Firestarting than were his courtiers, and Van would guess that his interest in the proposed exchange was not solely due to what benefits the new knowledge could bring to his nation.

Pivoting back to the Adremaza, Vanyel bowed a third time. “That, Adremaza, is one of our various Gifts. Useful as it is, it is neither the highlight nor the mainstay of our magical talents. However, most of our other Gifts either do not make for so dramatic an exposition, or are not… ethical, shall we say, to be put to such uses.”

“We understand,” Sehalis Athmaza said with a note of dry, if grim, amusement that was likely far more palpable to Van than to the others in the hall.

“We should note, Adremaza, that how the gods choose to distribute Gifts is their well-kept mystery. We ourself have been more… fortunate than most in the panoply of Gifts we have been Given.” His lips quirked at the word _fortunate._ Out of the corner of his eye, he espied a twitch of energies on the dais. He Sensed that the young maza had Felt, much more than heard or seen, the dark irony with which Van had underlaid that word. If the Adremaza had, he gave no sign of it.

“We would emphasize, however,” Van continued, “that no matter how Gifted an individual, he cannot fully realize his Gifts without many years of study and practice. Indeed, one with a Gift who has not been trained in its use may do more harm than good, to himself as well as to others.” The young maza’s ears rose, and Van could Sense the crackle of energy behind his shield.

“It is just so with mazei,” the Adremaza said. Vanyel wondered if it had been “just so” with the Emperor’s maza; if not, then very likely with another to whom he was close. It was far too common a source of tragedy for Gifted younglings. “Please tell us, Dach’osmer Ashkevron, what sort of ‘exchange of knowledge’ you seek with our mazei.”

“We would seek a comparative discussion of how magic in its various forms is acquired and wielded in both our lands,” Vanyel said. “We would not seek any learnings that His Serenity, you yourself, or any other trusted advisors believe detrimental to the interests of the Ethuveraz. Nor would we wish to violate any holy precepts by seeking out knowledge that is restricted to initiates of any particular rites. We ourself have a few such limitations on what we may divulge. That said, we are at liberty to discuss a wide range of magics, and our hopes are that the same is true of you and your colleagues.”

Sehalis Athmaza turned to face the Emperor, who had been watching the exchange with his chin resting on his fist. “If Your Serenity permits, we would seek to arrange a private audience with Dach’osmer Ashkevron. We would request that the Witness for the Athmaz’are attend as well. Your Serenity’s own presence would be necessitated by the fact that” — and here the Adremaza lifted his head to catch the eyes of the maza on the dais “— both your mazeise nohecharei would be crucial to this collaboration.”

“Permission granted, Adremaza,” Edrehasivar said, pulling himself upright in his throne. “You, Dach’osmer Ashkevron, and Sonevet Athmaza may confer further with Mer Aisava on the day and time for this private audience, which we and our mazeise nocheharei will attend as well. As we have spoken, so will it be.”

The Emperor’s final eight words set the Untheileian to buzzing once more. Having been earlier informed that they marked the conclusion of an audience, Vanyel bowed to both Emperor and Adremaza, then turned to head back down the great aisle.

The glances and murmurs that hailed him now were far warmer and more impressed than before, and hanging thick in the air was the Sense that not a few of the courtiers were imagining Vanyel in their beds. He faced dead forward without expression as he passed them by, just as he had on his way to the throne. He spared little more of a glance for the trio of goblins — sea-merchants, according to the page’s new announcement and judging by their clothing — who passed him on his left en route to their own audience with Edrehasivar.

The antechamber doors had barely closed behind Van when a familiar-looking elf wearing the imperial crest approached him, his silver earrings jangling slightly with the briskness of his stride. “Dach’osmer Ashkevron?”

Van smiled, half in genuine pleasure and half in embarrassment. “Forgive us; we recall that you are secretary to the Emperor, but we did not quite catch your name when we last spoke.”

“Csevet Aisava.”

“Ah, yes, Mer Aisava,” Vanyel said, recalling how the Emperor had referred to him. “A pleasure.”

As he had on their first encounter, Mer Aisava faced Van with the blandly pleasant, utterly unrevealing expression of the civil servant worldwide. “We are pleased that your audience with His Serenity was fruitful, and, as he has ordered, we seek to find a mutually agreeable time for you, he, and the mazei to meet. We have been informed that two hours would likely suffice for an initial meeting, at the end of which all participants could confer on an ideal time and length for a subsequent one.”

Vanyel spread his hands before him, hoping it conveyed the proper degree of acquiescence. “Our time is His Serenity’s while we sojourn in the Elflands. We wait upon his convenience, as well as that of the Adremaza and of any other personages involved.”

With a nod, Mer Aisava led Vanyel to one of the many small tables in the antechamber. This one boasted an inkwell, a stand that held several sharpened quills, and a small block of sealing wax, as well as a pair of goblets. “There is water if you would like some, Dach’osmer Ashkevron,” Mer Aisava said absently as he opened the kidskin-bound book he carried with him.

Before Van could get the “Yes, thank you” completely out, a servant with a pitcher — not the same one as before — materialized at his elbow, filled both goblets, and was gone again. Van, realizing just how thirsty the audience had left him, lifted his goblet to his lips. Mer Aisava meanwhile flipped through the pages of his notebook, revealing flashes of numerous lists and notes written out in a small, neat hand. Finally he stopped on a spread of pages whose calendrical squares were filled with various notations.

“His Serenity has a busy week ahead, Dach’osmer Ashkevron. We therefore hope you would find a luncheon meeting three days hence, beginning promptly at twelve noon, suitable. We have not yet checked with the Adremaza or the Witness for the Athmaz’are, but we are told they will both make this meeting with you a priority.”

“It would indeed be suitable, thank you,” Van said, then took another sip of water.

The scratch of Mer Aisava’s quill in his notebook was barely audible in the buzz of the various conversations and exchanges all around them. Suddenly he looked up. “Dach’osmer Ashkevron, are there any foodstuffs we should warn His Serenity’s steward against having the kitchens prepare, in the event that you are forbidden to consume them?”

“Ah, no, but it is most kind of you to ask,” Van said. Calculating from his Empathetic perceptions that a drop of flattery would not go amiss just now, he smiled again and added, “You are very much a credit to the Emperor, Mer Aisava.”

Mer Aisava’s expression did not change overall, but Vanyel could have warmed his hands on the heat he could Feel rising in the secretary’s face. “Thank you, Dach’osmer Ashkevron,” he said crisply, lowering his head a bit. His earrings jangled slightly.

Vanyel was suddenly aware that no shield had been built around this man’s mind at all. It was a violation of Heraldic ethics, he sternly told himself, to look inside it even slightly, when Mer Aisava neither needed to be won over nor carried any true authority to advance Valdemar’s interests in the Elflands. But … surely, this highly capable man had the ear of Edrehasivar, and the Emperor would at the very least take unconscious cues from the reactions of his trusted secretary to the subject of the magical exchange …

Gingerly, Van extended the faintest possible probe into Mer Aisava’s mind — then jerked it back as fast as a child who’d put his hand in the fire. _Oh._ It was his turn to blush.

Which, naturally, was the moment that Mer Aisava looked up again. On espying Vanyel’s face, he dropped his gaze back to his book and, very patently, pretended to scribble something of dire importance in the margin. “Very good,” he said, just a trifle too loudly. Van would have sworn an oath that Mer Aisava never, ever spoke too loudly by accident, not even by a trifle.

“Before you leave, Mer Aisava,” Vanyel found himself blurting out, the prospect of ending their encounter on a somewhat less awkward note seeming less likely the more words he uttered, “we have… a somewhat odd question we should like to ask you.”

“Yes?” Mer Aisava said mildly — far too mildly — as he looked up again.

“We are most… baffled,” Van began delicately, “by the linguistic convention of having formal and informal versions of the first person. We understand it for the second person, as it permits gradations of respect and intimacy to he or she whom one addresses. But why the first person as well? If you will forgive the observation, even at the royal court of our homeland and at many other courts we have visited, it would be considered… overly ceremonious.”

Mer Aisava’s eyes had widened slightly by the end of Vanyel’s first sentence. When Van had finished, he said with exceeding neutrality, “Perhaps, Dach’osmer Ashkevron, you would also like to meet with the Marquess Lanthevel, who is not only a highborn lord but a scholar of languages at the University of Ashedro. His Serenity suggested the additional meeting for the purposes of the Marquess gaining more knowledge about the Valdemaran tongue. However, we are sure that, in addition, he could explain to you the conventions of our language and how they came to be far more comprehensively than we ourself could.”

“Of course,” Vanyel said, the nape of his neck prickling with the shameful sense that his question had been something of an impropriety. “If this Marquess wishes to meet with us, we would be honored, and again we would be at his disposal.”

“Very good,” Mer Aisava said again, this time more levelly. Then he surprised Van by pressing his quill against his lips. His eyes, despite their overall elven pallor, seemed just slightly darker than they had before. “It does occur to us, however, to observe that we would find it most discomfiting to refer to ourself as ‘I’ before individuals we did not know very well. Almost as if…” He paused, and the pause might have been the most meaningful one Vanyel had ever heard. “…we were appearing completely unclad before them.”

“We see,” Vanyel said. In actuality, his bodily reaction to Mer Aisava’s words was not one of sight, either mortal or magical. He cleared his throat and, with far too keen an awareness of how his next words could be taken, said, “If you have need of finding us before the luncheon meeting, Mer Aisava, we are staying at the Inn of the Lady of the Stars, on the Avenue Varevesena.”

“We shall keep that in mind, and we thank you for being… amenable in this matter,” Mer Aisava said, a faint smile hovering on his lips. The word _amenable_ carried a mild note of emphasis too faint to have been picked up by anyone without the Gift of Empathy, but whose meaning Vanyel could not precisely determine. “We bid you a good day, Dach’osmer Ashkevron,” the secretary said, and, with his notebook in one hand, rose from the table and departed.

_:Another reason to be thankful for your lifebond, sweetling. Lovely young men with clever minds and loyalties that lie elsewhere can soothe your wounded vanity with admiration, but they can never fully work their wiles on you.:_

_:I shall leave an offering of gratitude for that to Astera the moment I return to Valdemar,:_ Van Mindsent to Yfandes with a touch of asperity. Her arch words had spoiled for him the pleasure of watching Mer Aisava disappear into the antechamber crowd, in particular a certain part of Mer Aisava. Of course, Van thought, it could not compare to the corresponding part of Stefen. He made a mental note that when he and Stef Mindspoke later in the evening — well, his evening, Stef’s morning — he would lavish florid praise on that part of Stefen, which he missed terribly. As he did every other part of Stefen.

 _:_ We _approve. And, in the meantime, you should come curry me,:_ Yfandes said with a hint of petulance that was only half in mock. _:There are no Companions in this wretched land, and all the ones back home must be asleep at this hour. No one for me to talk to when you’re about Valdemar’s business without me. I am_ lonely, _Chosen.:_

Vanyel sighed and finished his water. _:So am I, Brightlove. So very terribly lonely. Give me twenty minutes, and I will be at your side, currycomb in hand.:_ He put down the goblet, rose, and began to make his way out of the Untheileneise Court.


End file.
